


Nobody Moves Nobody Gets Hurt

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Aftercare, Captain John Watson, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, Facial, First Time, M/M, Oral, Very very dirty, bottomlock, domJohn, john is trash, kinklock, sublock, very dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock craves John's anger sometimes, and does what he can to tease it out. Very dirty by the end.</p><p>Title is from the song by We Are Scientists:</p><p>The day you move, I'm probably gonna explode...<br/>You pray for proof, I'm probably makin' this up<br/>Because..</p><p>My body is your body<br/>I won't tell anybody<br/>If you wanna use my body<br/>Go for it, yeah<br/>Go for it<br/>If no-one moves, then nobody's gonna get hurt<br/>Don't move, 'cause nobody wants to get owned</p><p>Because...<br/>My body is your body<br/>I'm not just anybody<br/>If you wanna use my body<br/>Go for it, yeah<br/>Go for it<br/>yeah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Moves Nobody Gets Hurt

"Well I just think it's absurd."

John was irritably peeling the clothes of the day from his form, distracted by his own lecture. He had a magnificent efficiency when he was angry. Sherlock often found himself searching John's face for the clue to what might be done that could push John a little closer to the edge of a tantrum.

Sweater, buttons, fold, chair, John kept speaking, punctuating his scolding with each little movement of hands and fabric. "You are a grown man, much as it's often impossible to believe. A child wouldn't do what you did. A child knows better than that!"

"No signs posted." Sherlock dropped his knees, legs stretching, casually put his arms above his head and leaned back. This should really annoy John, and Sherlock had to take a moment to check his own vital signs--no use playing this game if his breath rate, his pupils, the pulse in his throat gave it away. Too often he failed, and always the doctor politely ignored the obvious signs of arousal, but polite was getting them faster toward nowhere, the very direction from which Sherlock plotted now to avert them. "No signs," he repeated, almost yawning. "No guards. How should I know these pointless, arbitrary guidelines?"

"What? You what?" John had removed his shoes, and his hands paused now at his belt. He blinked, narrowed his eyes, then set his jaw, taking two steps closer until he stood over Sherlock on the couch, hands back at his sides. "Pointless arbitrary guidelines such as 'Do Not Attempt to Put Humans In the Penguin Habitat'?"

"This again. I've told you," Sherlock said quickly, sitting up as alert as he was a moment ago reclined. John didn't realize it, but when Sherlock shifted body language like this--signaling a mood and then another, repose and then obedience, it threw John off, and that made him want to lose his temper.  _Lose your temper_ , Sherlock thought, and felt his dick start to swell just a bit.  _Fuck, no. Not in these pyjamas._  He quickly flipped onto his side, his back arranged artfully towards John, and told the couch: "I wasn't attempting anything. I was doing. And what I was doing was not 'putting' a 'human' into what you call a 'penguin habitat' although I am sure if you were to search for those words on the internet you would not see--"

"Sherlock." John's voice was low.  _Yes. Yes. Good._  Still standing close.  _Push it. Keep pushing it_ , Sherlock's mind whispered, and he obeyed, as always, noticing, as always, that it whispered in John's voice.

"--you would not see a space bereft entirely of any penguins--"

"I can't be forever following you like a mother hen."  _Mother_? John-as-mother flashed by, and Sherlock permitted himself a moment of pursed lips--he'd have to deal with that later, cluttering up the rooms in his mind. Also now there were hens, which he did not realize at all were, in fact, ducks in his mind, as he had no idea which was which, and furthermore resented the very notion he should know or should care that he did not know. Also, invisible penguins kept wandering by this aviary, a maddening impossibility he refused to let distract him from his salacious purpose.

Even further, Sherlock had only the vaguest sense of what these or henducks looked like, though he seemed to recall an amusing image of tail feathers stuck up in the air that made him shift on the couch again, as the image superimposed on one of himself, all fours, offering--no.

" _Focus,"_ his mind murmured with undeniable command. 

_Yes, John. I will focus on you, John._

"--if you could indeed see it at all through the throng of wretched mammals pounding on the glass. That--creature," Sherlock, into the performance now, giving himself over to it as he did so love to do--explained again, with exaggerated patience, "was in the process of committing a crime against property potentially most dire--"

"That 'creature' was a silly teenage girl! You are not!" John stopped where he was--Sherlock heard the rustle of what fabric remained _oh bless the military_ for making Captain John Watson think nothing of being naked around his men-- _his men, his men, his men_ , the Woman repeated in his mind, and Sherlock nearly drew blood pressing his fingernails into his palm to stop the onslaught.

Sherlock quickly retrieved enough memories of John's face to know what it looked like now.  Eyes closed, hoping John would notice how fragile and lovely his back looked in this top,  _yes, look at me, John, look at this body I am in, this body wants your body John--_ he saw the anger rising and the stern Captain emerging from his fitful, nightmarish slumber, and the coldness, his own so familiar coldness, oh how he wanted to inhabit John's coldness, sometimes, for he was hot, so hot he was burning alive, and that cool perfect confidence held the flames, did not extinguish them, yet kept them both safe from the cauterization.

Sherlock almost gasped as he  _felt_  something in his heart, and this was the very feeling he craved, like a junkie...again, like a junkie, which he was, and he knew that, but no time for this image of the drug, no time for this image of himself swimming through the world under its influence  _because this drug is better, John is the drug of choice. What is this now?_  No time.  _No, it matters. What do I feel, aside from every inch of my skin, the pyjamas, the couch, what do I feel--_

 _Pity? For the_ **Captain**? No.  _What is this?_ Worry about it later.  _Time to get his body high with John's body at last._ _He snapped back into the work at hand, so to speak._

"--if you could indeed see it at all through the throng of wretched mammals pounding on the glass. That--creature," Sherlock, into the performance now, giving himself over to it as he did so love to do--explained again, with exaggerated patience, "was in the process of committing a crime against property potentially most dire--"

"That 'creature' was a silly teenage BOY! You are not!" John stopped where he was--Sherlock heard the rustle of what fabric remained oh god damn the military for making him think nothing of being naked around his men-- _his men, his men, his men_ , the Woman repeated in his mind, and Sherlock nearly drew blood pressing his fingernails into his palm to stop the onslaught. Sherlock imagined his face and knew what he saw, eyes closed, hoping John would notice how fragile and lovely his back looked in this top,  _yes, look at me, John, look at this body I am in, this body wants your body John--_

Hearing himself, John must have smiled just slightly--Sherlock noted the modulation frequency of his voice, the vibration, shifting ever so subtle as the sound wave carried on millions of tiny particles of air, vibrating them towards Sherlock's ears. Some of those molecules  _were_  John, bits of his skin, the smell of cedar and lavender clinging to his skin from his well-tended and carefully-stored clothes. Some of them had just been between John's lips, inside his body, and now they were inside Sherlock's body, and oh, yes, that was a pleasant collection of words in his mind indeed.

" _Are_ you?" John finished, a bit demanding but not enough, sounding distracted again now. The sound of his belt buckle, metal rasping, this was the time, right now, _he’s about to take his trousers off_ _and_ **_you're losing your moment to move,_**  Sherlock thought. John had two fuses, or as many as five, like the best of timed bombs. The short one burst and faded. The long one—

_Time to make your move._

“I don’t know, John. Perhaps you can tell me. By the way you were studying that _creature’s_ backside, you must be something of an expert on the genus in the wild.”

  1. Silence. Stillness. The second fuse had been lit when the first touched it lightly in the zoo, when John realized Sherlock was acting up to punish him for taking such a long look at a 19-year-old in skinny jeans, and hardly having the decency to conceal this, as if Sherlock were _dull_ , in both senses, as if he were both unintelligent and uninteresting. ( ** _Un_** _acceptable_. The performance as always was aided by whatever remained of his psyche protesting that he was, after all, a human being, and furthermore a man.)



The first lit the second. It had been burning and John didn’t even know. When Sherlock laid plain the baseness, the pathetic foulness of a man of John’s age, a _military man_ , ogling a young man’s bum at the zoo, there was barely a tick more of a moment in which John struggled to react when his urges were so conflicting.

Sherlock deduced John’s compulsions as the rage hit and counted them rapidly as he waited: John wanted to say “Fuck you” or “Sod off” but they could hardly go around putting _those_ kinds of words into the air they were breathing back and forth, could they? They never did, not hardly ever, walking carefully around the spaces where normal men would throw the around. John, at the same time, wanted to walk out, strong and silent, in control of himself, to show Sherlock he was above this and most of all _in complete control._ But he wasn’t.

Not of himself. Not at all. So Captain Watson had to control someone, and the someone who made him feel this way he hated and needed so much was Sherlock, infuriating him, desperately needing… _discipline._

_yes_

Even though he’d reached the necessary deduction just a second before John’s reaction exploded ( _ahem)_ , Sherlock was shocked by it. And because it shocked him, he failed. He failed to notice his body. It was too much one fire, all over. He forgot the pyjamas. He forgot his erection. He failed…spectacularly.

For in his pivotal moment, John was holding the belt in one hand. And because he absolutely could not hit Sherlock with it—he was an angry, violent, dangerous man like this but it was still a _controlled_ violence, and the idea of actually abusing anyone bothered him so much, so much, and confused him, too, but mostly just scared him and made him sick—Sherlock had seen it, oh yes, every time, the fear, _what did I do, did I go too far, is someone dead, who’s dead, who is dead this time_ , John would think. So he didn’t snap because he cared. He cared not to do so, especially with someone he…

_Yes?_

…considered his best….

…someone he…

_Go on._

…someone like Sherlock, someone who was Sherlock, whom John…

_Would never hurt?_

Wrong!

Sherlock didn’t realize it, but he hadn’t been breathing, and the air escaped him in a whirlwind of mixed molecules of their bodies.

All this happened in his mind in a flash, in a split second. There was hardly time for more. Because What John Did Was whip the belt in a firm, vicious circle and crack it hard against his own chair. The sound. It was so loud. _Sonic boom,_ Sherlock thought and nearly punched himself for knowing something so pointless. Too much information! There’s—

“Too much!” he heard himself yell, and he was in the room again and _oh my god_ he had fallen off the couch and he was splayed on the floor on his back with his aching cock outlined so clearly in the fabric there was no way they could possibly just ignore it and go on.

Another frozen moment. He looked at John. He had no idea what his own face looked like. This was good. If he’d ever learned how to truly use his face, he might have ruled the world in a terrible dystopian empire by now.

But he didn’t know, so he never quite knew why John would look him over, and why John looked so confused and so suddenly full of obvious lust. He couldn’t see his own face very well out in the world, couldn’t make the creepy fake smile less creepy, couldn’t—know—just what John saw, looking down at him on the floor, Sherlock with his hair wild and sticking to his slightly damp skin, face flushed, eyes wide and then half-lidded and honeyed, and of course the fact that his cock was indeed peeking out from inside the fly, blissfully unaware of the moment and simply wishing, like a puppy, to run to its owner and rub up against him excitedly. The right way.

He breathed. John breathed. Sherlock’s eyes were on the chair. A large stripe across the flag cushion, reminding him of his work in the morgue with the crop. He’d wanted John’s anger. He craved that dark and rough side of the man. Under the uniforms—the scrubs—the unassuming attire—his blogger was pure _rough trade._ Sherlock had followed, had seen—

But that led to dismal thoughts. He let his eyes move slowly, and saw John staring at it too. The mark.

_That could have been me. He wouldn’t have hit so hard._

_Would he?_

Not if he was under control, no. Angry—he loathed it, but John did things. Like spiking someone’s drink. Like headbutting in rage. John did…things that were not quite okay. Understandable. But always reminding them both that—

John met his eyes directly. “You,” he said, and slowly let himself look down and stare at the spectacle happening in the vicinity of the pyjama’s fly. “You are playing with fire.”

Sherlock almost fell backward, overwhelmed by the gruff desire in John’s voice. Then his Captain blinked, eyebrows lifting, and he looked alarmed.

“’Too much,’” he repeated. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Of course. I’ve done it now, haven’t I? Sherlock—“

The consulting detective with an international reputation felt his cock grow even more to its full stiffness and his face flush deeply at his name. John saw this too, and now his eyes narrowed.

“A game?” Now the anger was the bad kind. Starting to be cold. _Quickly quickly—_

“No!” Sherlock shook his locks. “No. I had to—I had to see if—please, John, I didn’t know you would—but—“ He looked at the stripe on the cushion again, like evidence at a crime scene, like the killing wound.

Before he could look back, John was upon him. He could only shift back to accommodate the rush as John strode to him, stood over him, and abruptly sat on his chest, knees pinning his shoulders…cock right in his face, through the fabric, so easy to open now, no belt, of course—

John was looking down at him as if lost in only the world where this existed. “You want it,” he breathed. “You want this.” He glanced down his own body and back. “You wanted this. You wanted that. Sherlock.”

The tiniest nod and his cheek was against John’s trousers. Just lightly. Just a tiny bit. But he could feel. And he could see. John wasn’t fully hard yet. All the sex he had, it’d take more. But oh, oh, it was starting—and all he would have to do now—

John seized Sherlock’s hair. A handful, a fistful…not too painful, but firm, so firm: _you are now in my control_ , the grip said. Captain Rough Trade was ready for action.

Sherlock moved his head quickly to follow John’s motion, and felt his face press fully against the bulge there. John tossed his head back, groaning, and pushed harder, until Sherlock’s face was rubbing John’s cock through the fabric, and it was growing—oh, it was growing—

John’s hips thrust at Sherlock’s face as if desperate. “Yes,” he growled. “Oh, you little fucking slut. You tease. You cocktease. Fucking take it out, Sherlock.”

“Take out what?” Sherlock mumbled this, faux-innocent, his lips burning as they felt John’s still responding cock under them, and his whole body seemed to shake and shiver, his cock jumping. He felt wetness there, and knew a small, perfect crystal drop had formed at the tip of his own penis, and would roll down and leave a spot on the pyjamas, soon.

_Say it, John. Oh yes talk to me that way. Yes. Oh yes._

_“You heard me.”_ The Captain tightened his grip in Sherlock’s hair and pressed yet harder, then released him and sat back enough that his pants could be unbuttoned, unzipped…

Sherlock stared at him, and John, blissed, so aroused, so pleased, so in charge, gave him a small, disciplined smile. “No more games. Do it now. You want to, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s eyes half-closed, and he looked up, up, and now John was the tall one, wasn’t he. “Yes, John,” he said, level, deep, the words he’d whispered in his bed so many times: “Yes, I want to suck your cock.”

John inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. As Sherlock’s graceful hands performed the task commanded, John touched his hair, his face, as gently as he’d been rough a moment ago. “Please,” John finally remembered to say, half-whispered.

Freed, John’s cock sprung out, so beautiful, perfectly shaped, just the right size to fill Sherlock’s mouth better than any _number_ of cigarettes.

“I haven’t,” Sherlock began. “I mean, I’ve watched—you know—but I’ve never—“

John gave a dark, almost cynical laugh. “You’ll figure it out. Oh, God, Sherlock, I need to feel your mouth. Look at you. You were made to do this.” Suddenly his touch, his caress, turned harsh again, and he seized another fistful of hair. “You were made to suck _my_ cock.”

And Sherlock did. Cautious at first, but urged on to do more, he licked, brushed his lips, rubbed his cheek against the skin, and then enveloped the head, running his tongue over it. _Wonderful._ He tried to remember what he’d seen in the pornography he’d studied in preparation, in hope, for this very moment—arousing, but it wasn’t particularly fascinating. _This was._ Soon John was thrusting and Sherlock was sucking and bobbing, deeper, deeper—

“Fuck yes. Cocksucker. Yes. You’re my cocksucker. Mine. Fuck. Oh fuck. Grab your dick. Do it.”

Sherlock hesitated not at all, and was stroking himself in seconds, in rhythm with the wonder of John’s cock sliding closer with each motion to the back of his throat. The sound of such filth—from _John Watson—_ if he hadn’t known about John’s cruising, all the men in alleys, clubs, dirty little motels—he’d be shocked. Wonderfully, deliciously, as each word sent lighting through his spine and into the shaft of his cock, now comfortably rubbing against his own palm and fingers.. But he knew. And that wouldn’t happen anymore. This would be good enough now. He would be enough for the Captain.

John arched his back to see, looking over his shoulder, and groaned so deeply, with such pleasure, at the sight Sherlock nearly lost it right then. But John was close too—he could taste the salt, he could feel the tautness of the skin—hear the breathing—both of them breathing—together, so much pleasure, so much lust, so much. So much.

“I want to come on your face,” John whispered, and Sherlock moaned around the dick in his mouth. Then he pouted as it was removed, looking up at his friend, his partner, his companion, his lover, now, with such a terrible disappointment he could see a smile flicker on John’s face again. “Don’t worry. Plenty of time for that later.”

_Later_

_Yes_

_More_

Sherlock’s back arched, his body pushing up so hard he would have toppled John from his chest if not for the power in the man’s legs. “Tell me you want it,” John ordered.

“Please,” Sherlock said instantly, then blushed again. He’d practiced saying he wanted this. He knew John would want to hear it. But he wasn’t accustomed to—to _dirty talking_ , much as he craved it. He felt embarrassed even as he felt his own orgasm approaching. “I, I want—“

“You can do it.” John was condescending but commanding. “Just say the words. I need to hear you.”

“Please,” Sherlock tried again, then took a breath: “Please come on my face. Please. Please. I want you to see that. I want to feel that. Please come on my face, Captain, please—“

He hadn’t meant to say _that._ But John groaned so loudly Mrs. Hudson would give them knowing looks tomorrow, and Sherlock closed his eyes just in time. It felt nice. Warm and nicer than he’d imagined. He couldn’t picture his own face, but as he opened his eyes—it was on his mouth, his cheek, and my goodness, he felt a bit on his eyelashes, making one eye stick slightly—and stared up at his man, he must have looked a sight, because John shuddered and spasmed again, riding the edge of his orgasm into a final peak.

Sherlock’s cock was still hard. But he couldn’t. It was too much. He’d stopped stroking, he just, he wanted it, he needed it, his balls ached. But he knew he just couldn’t. Not yet. It frightened him, though he clamped down on the emotion hard. To be that vulnerable. To let John, subsiding now in his post-orgasmic chillness, watch him do that now—he couldn’t. He forced himself to move his hand and John glared.

“I didn’t tell you to—“

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said quickly. “But I can’t—“

John’s face shifted into a look of wonder and— _sadness? Don’t feel sorry for me, no, never that—_ but no. It was disappointment, and John hid it very quickly. _Doesn’t want to pressure me,_ Sherlock thought with amazement. What a man. What a man was this Doctor John Watson.

“You don’t have to,” John said gently. “Never anything you don’t want. All right? I can be—I can get—a little aggressive—“

“A little,” Sherlock said drily and they both laughed, not loud, just a laugh, and they smiled at each other, and John absently leaned to the chair, snagged the shirt from the back, and carefully, sweetly, almost primly, used the sleeve to wipe the mess away.

They were hot. Panting. And here John was, ever thoughtful, ever sweet. He’d need to wash but he knew why John did this now.

“You always do that before you kiss a man?” Sherlock held his breath. He’d shown his cards. He had to. John had to know he knew.

John shook his head, not in answer, but just smiling, unbelieving. “You kiss Mrs. Hudson with that mouth?”

They both laughed now, helpless, giggling, and John shifted until Sherlock’s body was pressed full under him on the floor, and the laughter changed, and John was kissing his neck, his face, yes, yes, yes—

His mouth. It went on and on. Lips and tongues dancing. At long, long last. _He can taste himself on me._ Sherlock’s cock had quietly begun its retreat, but flared again now, at the thought, and he moaned into John’s mouth. He let it be. He’d have to, he’d simply have to, but he was _good_ at waiting, holding it back, letting it all out only when safe, alone, where no one could ever see or hear. _But someone will, now. He will._

_He’ll probably make it happen himself._

He wrapped his arms around his man, hugging him close. “John,” he whispered when the kiss finally broke. He didn’t know what else to say. John’s eyes were so bright and so sweet, so content, looking into his.

“Yes?” John was still smiling, his arms slid under Sherlock’s body in their passionate embrace.

“I’m sorry.”

John looked puzzled, and Sherlock explained: “You tried and I—I didn’t—I thought—that night in the restaurant, when we met—“

John shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “I tried and you didn’t. Now you tried and I did. So we’ve…come...” They smirked at each other, delighted with their own ridiculousness. “Full circle.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, “that fits. We’re definitely not straight.”

And they laughed again, and they moved to the bedroom, and John stripped Sherlock’s clothes and his own pants off, and they fell asleep entangled for the first time, nuzzling, saying little, just enjoying the freedom, soft and lovely kisses, stroking skin until they capitulated to their mutual dreams.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
